Scissors
by Hisamia
Summary: "It was stupid really. Embarrassing, if it weren't so hilarious. Crying over scissors." Lexa breaks down over a pair of scissors. Angsty as hell, but chin up, because Lexa is still Lexa.


Characters belong to the creators of The 100

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 **Scissors**

It was stupid really. Embarrassing, if it weren't so hilarious. Crying over scissors.

Out of all the debris of crumbled promises and corrupted memories that cluttered her soon to be ex-home, it was the fucking scissors that triggered the first onslaught of tears since the break up.

Lexa had taken on the seemingly mundane task of creating a list of items she was going to have to purchase on her next Target trip. An inventory of ordinary household items that represented the start of her new life. Her new life she never saw coming. Her new life without Clarke.

Lexa and Clarke had moved in together three years ago, thus beginning yet another test of their then, two year old relationship – cohabitation. The merging (or colliding according to Hindsight's perspective) of possessions and lives had been rather anticlimactic, and void of the giddiness Lexa thought appropriate for the milestone. She had thrown away all the usual suspects one collects over their early twenties; dresser, mix matched pots and pans, hand me down nightstands, broom, vacuum, scissors…all the things she never expected to need again.

See, Clarke had made it pretty clear through a series of disapproving looks and subtle comments as Lexa slowly moved in, that her household collection was certainly the more deserving of their new home. Having moved so many times during her childhood, Lexa never really became attached to any of the small necessities that created a home. It had all just become _stuff._ So there really were no metaphorical ties to cut as she dumped all her belongings in one trip to the trashcan.

And so here Lexa was now, methodically cataloging each room, pen and paper in hand, making a list of what she needed to rebuy to fill up the much-too-large condo waiting for her 20 miles away back in her home town. The list had grown to a second page by the time she hit the kitchen, and as Lexa scribbled down "scissors," it finally hit her – she had _nothing_.

Just four days ago, she had a fiancé, a dog, a backyard, and…scissors. Now, she only had an ex-fiancé, an ex-dog, an ex-backyard, and ex-scissors, because all this shit was Clarke's. Besides a bedframe, her beloved concert t-shirt collection (that Clarke barely tolerated), and one TV stand (that Clarke fully hated), there wasn't a single personal item that Lexa owned in "their" home. Somehow, Lexa had allowed herself to be slowly erased over the past three years to the point where she didn't even own fucking scissors.

The absurdity of the revelation was the final break in the dam of emotions Lexa had been holding back in a losing battle of keeping it all together. Suddenly sobbing so hard it knocked her down to her knees, Lexa gasped in dramatic fashion worthy of a Meryl Streep Oscar. And just in case she hadn't lost ALL her shit quite yet, her aforementioned ex-dog was frantically running circles around her in the most heartbreaking attempt to cheer her up.

Several mini breakdowns later, through blurry vision, Lexa catches her broken and snotty reflection in the glass of the oven door, and she can't recall the exact moment she stopped recognizing herself. The image is so offensive, it's exactly the kick the in the ass she needed to remember who she was.

This wasn't Lexa's first heartbreak - even though it was the first time it wasn't her own hand doing the breaking, which she was surprised to find hurt a thousand times more, and she wasn't one to fucking wallow in self-pity. There was no wallowing when her then favorite parent, her mother, had suddenly left when she was seven, and there is certainly going to be no wallowing now over a fiancé who also suddenly left at age thirty-two.

The teary hiccups eased, the ex-dog curled up asleep in her lap, and the wave of nausea rolled back to sea. Lexa kissed her ex-dog to the side, pulled herself up, grabbed her pen and paper, defiantly smudged off the wet teardrops, and moved on to the living room.


End file.
